


Madness is a Bitter Mercy

by Heiwako



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Drama, Gen, Literature, fan fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-27
Updated: 2015-07-27
Packaged: 2018-04-11 15:04:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4440428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heiwako/pseuds/Heiwako
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Entry for the "Meeting Sheogorath Contest" for the Writers of Tamriel group. <a href="http://fav.me/d5sz3z2">[link]</a></p><p>This is a slight reinterpretation of when Cicero went mad in Cheydinhal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Madness is a Bitter Mercy

Cicero was curled up on his side in the small space behind the Night Mother’s coffin. Twin trails of tears were the only clean spots on his dust-covered face. His shrouded armor was in tatters from wearing it every day for the last four months. It probably wouldn’t have been in as bad of shape if he didn’t rock back and forth constantly with his knees drawn up to his chin. 

Part of him knew that he should go back out into the main area. He could work out in the exercise room, cook a meal in the kitchen, read a book in the library. By Sithis, he could even just go to his bed, pull the blanket up over his head and just sleep. 

But it was too big out there. 

There had been a time, at least six months ago when Garnag was still here, that the place felt too small. Five rooms—big rooms, but still only five—were not enough for people to stretch in day in and day out. Every day. Sundas to Loredas. 

But now Garnag was gone and Cheydinhal Sanctuary was too big. Impossibly huge, infinitely huge. It felt that if Cicero were to run down the halls that he would run forever. He would never find the exit, he would never leave. Not that he would. He had to stay for the Dark Brotherhood. For the Night Mother. For Sithis. He had made a vow and he would die before he forsook it. 

The silence was deafening. The settling of the hidden base was even worse. The sloshing of the water running under the floor. The creak of the door hinge. Each one a crack in Cicero’s ear making him jump and shake in fear. 

Sometimes he thought he heard voices outside the Black Door. Angry citizens coming to bash it down, find him, find the Night Mother and destroy her. Destroy the Dark Brotherhood forever. Scratching, scratching, scratching at the Black Door. 

But what was worse was the Laughter echoing in the distance of the impossibly gigantic halls of Cheydinhal Sanctuary. So far away, but a little closer each day. Coming for Cicero. Coming for revenge. 

It had started before Cicero was alone. Before Garnag disappeared. Before even Pontius died. 

The Laughter was coming. Slowly but surely it was coming. IT WAS COMING, IT WAS COMING, IT WAS COMING FOR HIM! 

The only thing that did not make a sound, not one single peep no matter how much Cicero hoped, no matter how much he begged, no matter how much he prayed, was the Night Mother. She was always silent. Deadly silent. 

As horrifying as the Night Mother’s silence was, it was still better than the Laughter. Cicero tried to convince himself that he didn’t mind the Laughter. It had to be a gift from the Night Mother! It was a gift, a gift for poor, scared, lonely Cicero. The Laughter was a piercing of the Void to prove her power and to reward her faithful Keeper. 

But Cicero knew in his heart of hearts that it was a lie. It was impossible to lie to yourself when there was no one else to share the falsehood. As with everything else in his self-imposed solitude, the lie was slowly stripped away until only the truth remained. 

The Laughter was the jester and it was coming for Cicero. To take him to the Void personally. To get revenge for Cicero killing him. Cicero would be the last member of the Dark Brotherhood and he would die at the hands of his last victim. Or maybe voice of his last victim. It would laugh until he died. A certain poetic irony really. 

However, Cicero knew, he knew, he knew, HE KNEW that if he stayed in the shadow of the Night Mother’s coffin then he would be safe. Nothing could find him here. Nothing would dare to challenge the Night Mother’s power. Nothing would dare to disrespect her lest it suffer the Wrath of Sithis. 

Cicero licked his lips, tasting the dust and grit that lingered there, before clearing his throat. When he spoke, he didn’t recognize his own voice. It was rusty from disuse. Who else was there to talk to now? Everyone was gone. Garnag, Pontius, Rasha, Andronica, all of them were gone, gone, gone. 

“Mother? I mean Night Mother, if you’re there, could I make a deal with you?” he asked, his voice no more than a croaking whisper. “You could take the Laughter back in exchange for your voice, okay? It’s, it’s not that I’m ungrateful. I just could serve you better if I could hear you. Please?” Silence, of course.  Well, from the Night Mother at least. The damning Laughter was still there and getting louder. “Please???” 

Cicero closed his eyes, tears leaking again wiping new tracks down his face, forcing himself to try to sleep. He would hurt from being curled up and cramped when he woke, but at least sleep would allow the hours to pass faster. It would be tomorrow instead of mere minutes. Sundas was best. Sundas was the day he oiled the Night Mother and the purification ritual before the actual oiling helped passed the time tremendously. 

Still, he wasn’t tired. Scared, weary, nerve-wracked, but not tired. He perked up when he noticed the Laughter was gone, but then it was back and it was closer! He wanted to scream, but he bit down on his lip as hard as possible to refrain. Blood trickled down his chin and into his tattered top. The Laughter couldn’t find him. Please don’t let it. 

But it was closer and closer! It was in the room! Oh Sithis! Please! No! Not this! Don’t let Cicero die like this! 

The soft padding of footsteps suddenly appeared. Cicero could see silly curly-toed shoes from the crack of light that drifted into his hiding place. It didn’t pace or hesitate. No, those shoes were coming right towards Cicero. Cicero could make out a pair of maroon pants above the shoes and nothing else. 

“You might as well come on out, Chickpea,” a voice with a thick old Breton accent said. 

“My name isn’t Chickpea,” Cicero protested, partly curious how the Laughter had known his nickname and partly horrified that it did. 

“Fine, fine, Cicero then,” the voice snorted. “Or Ciccy? I like Ciccy better. Makes you sound like a sissy which is appropriate given your cowering. Now hurry up and get out here so I can see you properly before I get impatient and reach in there and rip your intestines out.” 

“I’m fine back here, thank you,” Cicero said, attempting to sound polite. 

The boots crossed at the ankles and the legs tilted to the side. “You’re not fine, and the sad truth is you’re not going to be fine ever again. That’s why I’m here, really. Not to put things to right, but to make it a whole lot more wrong. Not that there’s anything wrong about that though. It’s awfully right for me to do it. Now get out here before I get angry!” 

“Are you leaning against the Night Mother’s coffin?” Cicero asked, aghast. 

“I am.” 

“You- you can’t do that!” Cicero screamed, his voice high and screechy even to his own ears. 

“Make me stop,” the voice taunted, the Laughter back mocking and cruel. “Or is the little assassin scared? You scared, Ciccy? Scared little baby man hiding behind his momma?” 

“No!” Cicero protested. “I’m not scared and I’m not hiding behind the Night Mother.” 

“Odd because it looks like it to me,” the Laughter snorted. “You know what? I changed my mind. I do that, you know. I think you would like it if I were to rip your worthless guts out of you, so instead, I’m going to leave. Leave you here alone in the dark.” 

Cicero’s heart felt like it stopped when the Laughter turned to leave. No! He didn’t want it to leave. Now that it was here and not clawing into him or scratching his eyes out, Cicero didn’t want to be left in solitude again. Even if it was only for a little bit longer, it was nice to have someone to talk to. 

“Wait! Don’t go! I’m really not hiding. See?” He turned onto his hand and knees and crawled out from behind the Night Mother’s coffin. “See?” he repeated as he stood. 

The redhead made a pathetic figure as he wrung his hands nervously. He was covered head to toe in dust from being curled up on the earthen floor, his armor was little more than shreds, and his cheeks were sunken from hunger. Most of Cicero’s meals lately had been small mouthfuls of fungus, moss, and the occasional slow skeever. 

The Laughter turned out to be a jester. Not _the_ Jester as Cicero had originally thought, although the man wore the same motley. Cicero would know it anywhere. He had taken it from the Jester after he died and kept it as a souvenir. Sometimes he would drag it out of the dresser where he had stored it just so he could stroke it. He liked how the velvet felt as he trailed his hand along it. 

This man, if he was a man, didn’t quite look like a Breton despite the thick accent. He had white hair and a matching goatee. Laugh lines were a map of wrinkles on his face with just a hint of cruelty behind his wide grin. Most striking of all were his blind eyes, eyes that seemed to see all of Cicero and maybe even beyond him. 

“Who are you?” Cicero whispered. 

"I am a part of you, little mortal. I am a shadow of your subconscious, a blemish on your fragile little psyche. You know me. You just don't know it,” the man was a Breton but not a Breton, who was the Laughter but wasn’t the Laughter, who was real but wasn’t real, laughed. “I’m Sheogorath, Daedric Prince of Madness.” 

“Oh Sithis, I’ve gone mad,” Cicero groaned. 

“No, no, no,” Sheogorath said, shaking his head, “but if everything goes right then you will by the end of the night.” 

“How can be going mad be a good thing?” Cicero asked, curious. 

“Because right now at the rate you’re going, you’re going to die,” Sheogorath said. “You’ll more or less kill yourself from loneliness and fear, and that’s just unacceptable. As unacceptable as juggling cheese wheels in mixed company. Rude really when you get down to it.” 

“Why would you care if I die?” Cicero asked now suspicious. Daedra lords were not known for their generosity. “I am bound to Sithis. I will not swear myself to another for anything! I AM LOYAL!” 

“Aye, aye, aye,” Sheogorath chortled. “That’s why I’m here as a sort of favor from your momma, the Night Mother. She can’t talk to you directly and Sithis can’t interact with you at all. If you were to see him, your little mortal mind would explode and your eyeballs would pop like grapes. Hm, grapes.” Sheogorath smacked his lips in appreciation. “We actually went through five Listeners before we figured that out. Haven’t you ever heard that I’m a Sithis-shaped hole in the world? Because I am. Except when I am not. But right now I am the representative of Sithis. Wait, I told you that already, so ignore that part.” 

Cicero sneered as he stepped away from the rambling daedra. “Begone, demon,” he commanded. 

“Oh ho ho, aren’t you a delight? Telling ME of all people to leave. I tell you what. I’ll say my piece and if you still want me to leave, I won’t let the door hit my ass on the way out. But you’ll sorely disappoint the Night Mother if you do.” 

“What do you mean?” Cicero asked. 

“Here’s the situation, Ciccy,” Sheogorath said as he crossed his arms behind his back. “Frankly the Dark Brotherhood is fucked. You’re here, you’re loyal, and you’re losing it. The Listener isn’t ready to be tapped yet and you’re not eligible. You’re likely to kill yourself, whether intentionally or through mishap. You’re cracking like an egg in an omelet. So, I’m here to offer you a gift. I’m here to offer you madness to help you get through the long years until it is time for you to find the Listener.” 

“It’s not much of a gift,” the Imperial snorted. 

“Ha, ha, can’t deny that!” Sheogorath howled. “You’ll likely end up talking to yourself or rambling in long winded rants no one will pay attention. But you won’t mind because you’ll be at peace. You may have bad moments when reality comes crashing back down on you like a mountain, but the madness will buffer you through most days.  Madness is a bitter mercy, perhaps, but a mercy none the less." 

“How can you ever say that?” 

“Because you won’t feel fear, you won’t be lonely, and best of all you won’t even know you’re crazy!” Sheogorath declared. “You’ll get by cheerful as a clam. Or a slaughterfish.” 

“I don’t,” Cicero said hesitantly, “I don’t know.” 

“Look, if you die, then the Night Mother is screwed,” Sheogorath nudged. “There must be a Keeper for all of that mildly erotic oiling that must be done once a week for the vessel. You keep it up and do a good enough of a job, she’ll not need you anymore, but in the mean time you’re vital.” 

“Mother needs me?” Cicero couldn’t believe it. 

“Definitely! I tell you what. Not only will I make you mad, I’ll even give you new armor.” The daedra pointed at the motley he was wearing. “This right here.” 

“That’s not armor,” Cicero sniffed. He had the sneaking suspicion the Mad God was only teasing him. 

“Oh yes it is!” Sheogorath declared. “It’s the very best type of armor. No one knows that it’s armor but you because it’s not about stopping sword stabs, dagger slashes, or axe chops. It’s about deflecting your opponents’ opinions so they underestimate you. It’s about making a fool of your rivals by being foolish yourself. It’s about saying ‘Fuck you’ just by coming into a room.” 

“It’ll get destroyed,” Cicero lamented. He loved the motley because it was his trophy from his last contract. It could never be replaced and the thought of losing it pained him. “Look at my shrouded leathers.” 

“Not if I enchant it. It will always be yours. You’ll have to patch it occasionally, but it won’t fall apart from time and use. Love it and keep it, and it will be yours for as long as you live.” 

“Why don’t you just make me mad?” Cicero screamed suddenly, his nerves suddenly snapping. This felt too good to be true. “Why ask me? Why?!” 

“Because you’re Sithis’,” Sheogorath sighed, starting to get bored with this whole deal. Why did mortals always question and complain when he offered them his gift? “I can’t touch you because you belong to a power that is greater than me, even if I am made from him. You are the Keeper, not just some metaphorical child. You are protected by your sacred position. Just as you’re cursed by it. Cursed to wander these halls, scared and alone.” 

“So if I agree, I will continue to serve the Night Mother and go to the Void when I die?” 

“Yes, at least until the big man comes to gobble your soul up,” Sheogorath shrugged. “Can’t win them all, you know.” 

Cicero sighed as a great burden was lifted from his shoulders. He didn’t have to be alone any more. And he could still protect the Night Mother. “Okay, I will accept your gift.” 

“Excellent, Ciccy, excellent! Cheese for everyone! Well, maybe not since there isn’t any. But you can imagine it later. That’s just as good. Better really since it will taste as good as you like. Here you go, the motley as promised!” 

When Cicero opened his eyes, he saw that he was now dressed in the red and black velvet outfit while Sheogorath was wearing some red and purple abomination. “Oops, almost forgot!” Sheogorath exclaimed, “I need to give you your weapon.” He brushed his lips against Cicero’s in not quite a kiss. “The most powerful weapon of all – laughter.” 

Then the daedra lord was gone back to the Shivering Isles. 

“Cicero is dead.” The newly made jester’s lips twitched. A giggle escaped, unable to be contained.  All of his fear was gone. All of his doubts were gone. All of his screams were gone. There was only madness and merriment! He threw his arms wide as if to embrace the world. “Cicero is born! The world has seen the last of Cicero the man. Behold Cicero, Fool of Hearts - Laughter incarnate!” 

Cheydinhal Sanctuary was no longer empty. It was now full with laughter.


End file.
